


Barry's Rogues

by Sorrel (DVOA)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Barry Owns Saints and Sinners, Dark Barry Allen, I'll add more as I go I swear, M/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn, but not like THAT dark, coldflash is end game, how does one tag things, okay maybe a little, rogues - Freeform, well timeline memory loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DVOA/pseuds/Sorrel
Summary: AU wherein Zoom goes back in time to stop Barry from ever becoming the Flash. But instead of preventing the death of Barry’s mother, Zoom decides to frame Barry for the murder. And... well, Barry grows up a bit differently than his relatively peaceful life with the Wests, to say the least.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart
Comments: 25
Kudos: 150





	1. The Murder

_**March 18, 2000** _

Barry was shaking. Tears clouded his vision as he watched the lightning swirl around his mother. He felt himself reaching out, screaming. He heard his Dad’s voice, echoing around, he felt choked by the fear. He faintly heard cries of “Run, Barry! Run!”

But he stayed rooted to the spot, watching. Something felt... off.

Arms wrapped around him, and Barry tensed in fear, what the hell—?

The arms were encased by a black tripolymer suit— and how did he know that?— and pressed bruises into his skin. He felt a whoosh of air behind him, heard his Dad yelling at this person that had trapped Barry. 

In a blink, there was a kitchen knife in his hand. The stranger had his fist curled around Barry’s, gripping the handle.

Barry gasped and, finally, fell out of his stupor. “Mom, Dad!” he cried out. His dad was on the other side of the lightning swirl, and a loose bolt sparked into him, throwing him to the ground. Barry didn’t know what to do.

Everything slowed down around him as the strange man tightened his grip. Blue lightning joined the flashes of red.

But... he felt like he’d seen this before. Things were different than in his vision-esque deja vu, wherein there was no mystery person, but it felt like he was seeing this all again. Images flashed in his head, voices and scenes he couldn’t place. But he didn’t have time to examine them. He had to focus on the present. He felt older than eleven— felt a strange energy surge through him. He drew himself up to his entirely unimpressive height, and bit down on the man’s arm, _hard_.

A strangled yelp of surprise echoed behind him, but after another whoosh, he felt himself gagging on a piece of cloth. His lungs burned, he could feel his heart pumping rapidly, felt the tears pouring down his face. He struggled, he thrashed— he tried to escape the man’s grasp but he was only dragged forward.

Everything still seemed slow around him— was it adrenaline?— but no, this was like micro seconds ticking by. He watched as the lighting focused into a single form, simply running in circles. A man dressed in yellow. He had a knife, too. Maybe even from the same set as the one in Barry’s hand. 

The man in black’s grip was firm, unwavering, even as Barry continued his scramble, dragged his feet, powerless to stop the forward movement.

He was crying so hard that he couldn’t breathe. He gasped and screamed out for his parents. Then he caught it. A glance of surprise as the man in yellow’s eyes connected with Barry’s. He couldn’t read them perfectly, but there was a mix of surprise that quickly shifted to anger. 

The yellow man veered out of his loop, knife now aimed above Barry’s head. But whoever was holding Barry was faster.

The blue lightning crackled around him once more, and there he was, standing nearly eye to eye with his mom. Her eyes were wide, unseeing; they were stuck in time, still reacting to the lightning. Barry wanted to hug her. To help her.

Instead, he felt Zoom’s grip tighten and pitch his arm forward.

Barry’s mind went blank as he watched the smooth steel slide into his mom’s chest, her expression still blank. He could see blood just starting to well up from the wound as the man in black pulled back his arm. Barry let out a short gasp. What had...? Had he...?

Barry’s head was spinning as he tried to crane his neck, fighting harder than ever before to scramble free. He could barely see through the tears now, everything appearing watery and distorted.

He felt that grip tighten around his arm once more, and his arm lurched forward, stabbing into flesh. Again, and again, and again...

Barry closed his eyes. His stomach swam, bile rising in his throat. A strange noise pierced the silence and screams of _no!_ echoing through Barry’s head. He couldn’t place it at first, the sound distorted between the crackling of lightning, the swirls of air, the squelching noise of flesh being torn and pierced.

It was... laughter. The man behind him was _laughing_.

Then the knife was raised, Barry’s wrist was tilted, and the man in black doled out two last slashes: one across the face— Barry watched in horror as his mother’s eye “popped” — and then across her throat. 

The slow motion abruptly ended, and the blood sprayed out like a cheesy horror movie. He felt it in his hair, his eyes. Felt it on his lips, and kept his mouth firmly closed. 

Barry felt something boiling inside him, cold and hot all at once. His vision grew fuzzy; the tears had stopped at some point, but he didn’t know how.

In another blink the slow motion was back again, and he watched helplessly as the butt of the knife collided with his father’s head. 

And then he was somewhere else entirely. It was quiet and dark, but he still felt the after images of the lightning burned into his retinas. The man in black had released his hold, and as Barry glanced around, seemed to have disappeared entirely. It was still the middle of the night, and Barry was standing in some road he half-recognized, holding a knife coated in his mother’s blood.

Barry let the knife clatter to the ground. He ran to the side of the road and puked. He just stared into the bushes, dry heaving, gasping. And then he started screaming. He knew it wouldn’t help, he knew it wouldn’t do anything, but he couldn’t just _sit there_ , and he _felt_ so much, he just— His breathing became sporadic once more as he reached for his phone— he had to call for help! The police, the hospital—

A light blinked on behind him, casting shadows around his back.

“CCPD! Put your hands up!”

Barry didn’t even question it. Dropping his phone, slowly, he raised his hands and turned around. The man, presumably a police officer, gasped before choking down his surprise.

“You’re under arrest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! This is the first fanfiction I've written, and I hope you're interested in seeing more. I was debating between writing this or a different AU, wherein Barry calls in the Legends to help with Zoom and... well, it gets complicated. I still want to write it at some point so I won't elaborate. Also, I just finished watching the Zoom season a week or so ago if you couldn't tell, lol.
> 
> I'm open to any and all criticism or questions, especially since this is not beta read! I'm also still learning how to properly characterize everyone :D


	2. The Psych Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry meets his first Rogue, although he doesn't know it yet. He also uncovers the Pudding Conspiracy™.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I really don't like Walker all that much, but this seemed like the most logical progression. Originally Barry was going to get thrown into Juvie and meet Len there, but then I remembered, oh fuck there's an age difference. It is an au so I could probably change it, but I don't mind the new plan I've come up with. Unfortunately, that does mean we'll have to wait just a bit longer to see them interact. But... just as an FYI, the next chapter is titled "The Pyromaniac (and his friend)" so you could probably hazard a guess at who we're meeting next. ;)
> 
> Also this isn't a crack fic, I swear, I just got a little too into the pudding—

Trials came and went, and Barry shifted from confinement to confinement. People always talked about him as if he wasn’t even there. The psychologist they hired claimed that perhaps these yellow and black “creatures” were manifestations of Barry’s consciousness as he decided whether or not to kill his mom. After the tenth visit Barry told her to go fuck herself.

Another trial. Another space. Another shrink.

Barry stopped telling the story, the truth. Stopped talking entirely. He just sat and watched and listened. People always had this strange mix of emotions when they looked at him, ranging from pity to anger to horror. The reporters were the worst. He was still a minor, so he had some protections in place, but now and again someone would slip through the cracks. They’d poke and prod and question and Barry’s mind would go spiraling.

The last time he testified was to exonerate his dad of all blame. Just to be sure, Barry said that his father had been knocked out before his mother’s murder. Even if that wasn’t true. Even if lying made his chest seize up. Barry still made it clear that it was the man in black’s doing, _not Barry’s_ , as he told the court what happened. But he _knew_ no one believed him. 

Barry also knew he wasn’t crazy, but… sometimes he felt like he was. With the way everyone looked at him. Talked about him. Judged him. Maybe things would be easier if he really was crazy.

It took over a year for a decision to be made. Somehow the court dates kept managing to get messed up, as someone would call in sick, some crucial document would be gone, or some personnel would quite literally _go missing_. One time the courthouse had a bomb threat called in. And they actually found a bomb. It was so weirdly specific that the CCPD opened an additional investigation on Barry to see if he was somehow causing this. He even heard them speculating about if he, Bartholomew Henry Allen, an 11 year old, had ties with the Santinis. Barry wondered if the universe had some grand conspiracy against him. 

But nothing turned up. Not a shred of evidence or connection.

Eventually, Barry’s DA went with an insanity plea, and Barry was shipped off to some psych ward on the fringes of Central.

~~~

Barry Allen met his first Rogue in that psych ward. Barry hadn’t known he would become a Rogue at the time, of course. They were both just two lost kids trying their best in a cold and unfamiliar place. And he was Barry’s first friend since… since _that_. 

The kid’s name was Axel Walker. And he was fucking crazy.

Like, actually-deserved-to-be-in-the-psych-ward-unlike-Barry _crazy_. But he was also the first person to look at Barry with something other than pity or contempt, and they both enjoyed stealing puddings from the staff.

Barry remembered his first night there. Like some kind of overly dramatic movie, it was storming.

Barry’s birthday had come and gone. He was twelve now, and sitting in the back of a police car, hands cuffed. Detective Joe West was driving. He hadn’t looked back at Barry even once. 

Barry had become friends with his daughter, Iris, not long before. They were on the road to becoming best friends, even as Barry felt the first hints of a developing crush. Their parents got along well, and they had started having dinners together now and then. Iris was strong and smart and determined, already excited about participating in the high school newspaper and yearbook.

But now, like the rest of his life, that had all fallen apart. 

Neither Joe nor Iris ever did come to visit him.

Joe actually looked relieved as Barry stepped out of the car into the waiting arms of psych ward staff in hospital scrubs.

Barry found himself shaking, but no tears came. His throat was dry and the words wouldn’t come out. He lifted his head, trying to look Joe in the eyes. He couldn’t. So all Barry could do was think it to himself.

_Bye, Joe. I’m sorry. Please, please say bye to Iris. I miss you. I miss dad. And mom..._

And then Joe was turning away, and Barry felt cold, gloved arms on his shoulders, turning him, leading him— and Barry started thrashing, screaming. He couldn’t think. He had to run. He had to get those arms off him. Not again, he didn’t want to hurt anyone else, please he didn’t want to—

Barry was on the concrete, a knee between his shoulder blades. He felt a needle slide into his skin, and the world slipped away.

~~~

Everything felt numb and hazy. Barry’s eyelids were heavy, and his vision swam whenever he tried to open them. 

He thought he heard voices... no, one voice— and tried to focus on it. It was some monosyllabic word, repeating over and over again. Then Barry felt a pain in his side. And another. He groaned and finally forced his eyes open.

Another kid who looked around his age was poking Barry and whispering “Hey,” incessantly.

Barry’s throat still felt dry, but the other kid’s eyes lit up in delight as he tried to sit up.

“Hey! I’m Axel Walker! Wanna have some fun?” The other kid, Axel apparently, held out his hand. 

Nearly all of Central had heard about Nora Allen’s tragic death, about good old Doc Allen’s life falling into shambles, about the kid who murdered his mother. They didn’t necessarily know his face though. Or his nickname. “Uh, I’m… Barry.”

“Barry…?”

“... just Barry.”

Axel shrugged and flashed a wicked smile. He thrust his hand forward once more, and Barry took it. A small electric shock ran through Barry’s palm, and he reeled back in shock.

“AXEL?!”

Axel burst out into a fit of laughter and revealed the electric prank buzzer hooked onto his hand. Barry felt his cheeks flush in anger and embarrassment, but somehow, he found himself laughing. He hadn’t laughed in so long.

Axel finally stopped rolling on the floor, and wiped a tear out of his eye. “Welcome to the ward, Barry.”

~~~

Barry and Axel’s friendship was tumultuous to say the least.

But being the only two of their age group to consistently live there meant other options were slim. Occasionally kids would pass through, wherein Barry would try to comfort them while Axel terrorized them and attempted to rope them into his “pranks.” 

Barry was startled and uncomfortable at first, too. Axel’s sense of humor took some getting used to. But as Axel always said, “Pranks are more fun when you have someone to laugh with.” He always said it with a certain sense of wistfulness. Barry assumed he was thinking about his parents, but if they were encouraging this kind of behavior, then Axel was probably better off here.

They developed a bit of a deal. Barry helped Axel stay entertained, and in return Axel displayed a certain modicum of self-restraint. Barry’s main stipulation being no permanent bodily harm— and _yes_ that included teeth. 

Axel also had a bit of an obsession with pudding. He had been stealing a cup nearly every day, even before Barry’s arrival. About a month in he started offering Barry one as well. They would sit and chat and eat their pudding. Barry would ramble on about his life before all this— not that there was much of it— about school, about his mom. Axel liked talking about his parents, too. He liked telling epic tales of the pranks they pulled and good times they had. Even if they always sounded insane. Neither really talked about why they were there.

Pudding and chatting with Axel was the highlight of his life. _Wasn’t that sad?_

But Barry soon realized that the love of pudding was one of those weird universal things that all the patients seemed to share. After Ricky, a kind older patient who taught Barry checkers, broke down crying over losing his pudding, Barry decided to bite the bullet and ask Axel where exactly he was getting the extra cups.

Axel rolled his eyes. “The other patients, duh.”

The pudding didn’t taste as good after that.

With not much else to do, Barry started wondering how they could get more pudding. When he asked his usual psychologist she just brushed it off. The staff all saw it as a silly, childish request. They might have even thought it was endearing if not for what they believed Barry had done.

But he was determined to find a way to keep their pudding quantity the same without taking it away from their fellow patients. 

Thus, Barry decided to track the pudding to its source: the cafeteria’s backroom. Every other day the pudding would be carefully handed out. Each patient got one and only one. The same applied to staff. But Barry always saw the front desk lady eating one, sometimes even a second one, he swore, and several other staff members, too. Barry dubbed it the Pudding Conspiracy™. And he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Different patients rotated in to assist the kitchen staff. Of course, Axel had gotten barred from that duty after slipping laxatives into everyone’s food. So that left Barry to investigate. He hadn’t let Axel in on his theory yet anyway— Walker wasn’t exactly the covert type.

But when Barry’s kitchen rotation finally came up he was _ready_.

He went through the food prep, mostly spooning and placing and moving, never cutting, with relative ease. It reminded him of cooking with his mom. Her relaxed smile, her soft words of encouragement. Barry’s embarrassment when he burnt nearly everything he tried to cook except breakfast. The Mother’s Day before… ...when Barry made her pancakes and waffles and brought them to her in bed. He got properly chastised for using the stovetop without adult permission before his mom wrapped him up in a big hug. Her eyes lit up, and she said how much she loved him. Barry mumbled yeah yeah mom, I love you too, embarrassed at the attention. He should have hugged her tighter, should have said—

Barry felt his body shaking. It’s not that he didn’t like thinking about his mom. He loved when he could remember moments so clearly. But not here. Not in this sickeningly sterile excuse for a cafeteria where everything somehow smelled like hand sanitizer, febreeze, and death all at once. Where people were starting to filter in and look around. He said he was _ready_ , dammit— and Barry really was getting quite the mouth on him, courtesy of Axel.

Deep breaths. In, out. 1, 2, 3…

Barry refocused on the task at hand. Even if he strongly disliked the psychologists and their assumptions, Barry had to admit that the grief counseling had its merits. He served each patient as they shuffled through the line. He saw new and old faces. He tried his best to smile as they came through.

Axel waggled his eyebrows and giggled as Barry handed him a tray, and Barry just smiled patiently until Axel let out a huff and moved along. Barry could see in his eyes that he wasn’t really mad about it— little things like that had stopped getting a rise out of Barry weeks ago.

Soon after that, Barry’s shift was over, and he excused himself from the rest of the staff to eat his lunch. He made sure he was the last patient to go hang up his apron on the wall which just happened to be right next to the store room. Free time was up next and he knew Axel would find a way to cover for him. It was a weird unspoken code they had created. Carefully, Barry slipped inside and tucked himself behind a stack of boxes. He made sure he could still see the pudding shelves before he settled in, and waited. 

About 15 minutes later, at the beginning of Staff Cycle 1’s lunch rotation, it all came to light.

A front desk woman and two male staff members walked in. They glanced around, the woman and the bulkier man looking for the most part nonchalant. The one twiggy guy— what was his name? Todd?— seemed a bit more shifty-eyed. Barry peered out from his hideaway. In carefully practiced motions, the group began packing puddings into a cardboard box. But that didn’t make sense. Barry had served during staff lunches. They got the same pudding rations as everyone else. Or at least, they were supposed to.

_The staff were sneaking off with extra shares of the fucking pudding??_

Barry ran a hand through his hair. This felt both ridiculous and insanely important. The Pudding Conspiracy™ was real.

Now he just needed a plan.

~~~

When Barry told Axel he needed a distraction, oh boy did he deliver.

Barry only had a moment to watch as staff rushed into the common area now covered in confetti and sneezing powder— where did Axel even _get_ that?— before he was slipping through the still-closing staff break room door. His eyes darted around, taking in the dimly lit room, until they landed on the unassuming cardboard box.

Barry could hear the rapid fire footsteps echoing down the halls. Voices yelling. He even caught a bit of Axel’s manic laughter. He had to hurry.

Barry began stacking the pudding into his makeshift sack. He made sure not to take all of them; just enough to start a nice little stash without raising too much suspicion. After all, the staff couldn’t report the pudding theft since they were technically stealing the pudding in the first place. Not that the amount they were stealing would be able to supply the whole ward, even for an extra day, but it was enough to be a bit of a dick move. Axel’s words, not his.

Barry tied the knot off and slipped the pudding sack under his oversized, baggy t-shirt, helpfully supplied by Ricky under the promise of pudding, and ducked back out of the staff room. He did an awkward run/walk/shuffle back to his private room, trying his best to look not suspicious. He really hoped it was working.

As Barry shut the not-lockable door, he noticed that the ward was calming down. The footsteps were growing less frantic and the yelling was nearly gone. He recognized the sound of Axel’s skipping down the hall. Barry leaned into the door as the kid passed, and he heard faintly, “In the clear.” Barry let out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding. That meant Axel hadn’t been caught. Even if it was pretty obvious to anyone who knew Axel, if the staff didn’t have any proof of his actions, they couldn’t put him in solitary.

Barry climbed up onto his bed, puddings in hand. He had already knocked a ceiling tile loose earlier, and after moving it aside, tucked the puddings up and away. By the time someone came around to check on him, he was back down lying in bed, swaddled in his blanket. 

Mission success.

~~~

After that, it became sort of a tradition. Sometimes Barry enlisted Axel’s help, other times he was able to duck in himself. He got better at making his own distractions. He was still a terrible liar.

Barry also became a favorite of the ward. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his new nickname— “Pudding Kid,” which later evolved to “Pudding Guy.” But it was nice to be known for something other than… well.

Word got around the ward surprisingly fast, and Barry realized that people were willing to trade pretty interesting things for pudding. He was offered drugs more often than he’d admit, but he always refused. Books were his primary goal. He didn’t have any connections outside the ward to get them, but others did. Outside food wasn’t allowed, but books— after being thoroughly checked for anything hidden in the pages— were. And soon he was developing a nice little library. 

Whenever Barry finished reading one he’d slip it into the ward’s donation pile. And eventually he was known for that, too.

Not everyone had connections, of course. It didn’t stop people from asking, but after a lecture on business— which sounded suspiciously like drug dealing— Axel convinced him to stay firm on the trades. 

But, well, if Barry saw someone having a bad day, and he sort-of-maybe-sometimes slipped them a cup anyway, Axel didn’t need to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!!
> 
> I'm currently just posting as I write, so the plot is still malleable— if you have any suggestions feel free to let me know :D
> 
> /SPOILERS/  
> /  
> /  
> Also, if you're interested in where the story is heading, this is what I was thinking:
> 
> Barry is going to meet up with various future-Rogues as he grows up. They'll eventually reconnect after the particle explosion. I originally was going to have this Barry wake up in the OG timeline, but the more I write the more attached I get to this au, so now my brain is just like .-. 
> 
> Annnd you may have noticed that a certain someone is still keeping track of Barry's life in this one...
> 
> (also the pudding will be important next chapter I'm serious)
> 
> /  
> /  
> /SPOILERS OVER/


	3. The Pyromaniac (and his friend)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len and Mick get into some trouble with a burning house. Barry helps them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ello everyone! Sorry this chapter took so long to push out, school has been kicking my ass :/  
> I'm also a perfectionist by nature and I spent wayyy to long editing this. I might edit it again after I post it, but I wanted it to get out there.
> 
> The main focus is still Barry helping out Len and Mick, but I wanted to include more about how Barry was feeling, and some developments of life in the psych ward.
> 
> This is also the first chapter to include other POV's!! It jumps around a bit, so I hope it's not too confusing, but I wanted to try to explore characterizing everyone. I've also started to get a good idea of where the plot is really heading. We'll probably get some more time skips, but they should slow down into a consistent/linear timeline in like 2 chapters.

Barry liked to think that he was adjusting well to his new life, all things considered.

But it wasn’t the talks with Axel or pudding thefts that were hard. It was everything in between.

Some days seemed to swallow him up. The phantom feeling of blood on his face. Foreign arms restraining him. Barry just wanted to curl into his bed and hide. Not this bed— this cold lumpy stranger of a bed. His one at home, with its soft red sheets, where his mom read him goodnight stories. Where he had posters of the stars and periodic elements and little models hanging from the ceiling that he had built with his dad.

Sometimes it was just too much, and Barry would cry and scream into his pillow. He didn’t even know what he was feeling or thinking or screaming about exactly, it was just an overwhelming concoction of emotions. Nightmares clawed at his sleep. He would wake up in cold sweats, not to his parents, but to some doctor crowding around him.

Barry had initially been forced to take medication for schizophrenia, based on his original descriptions and explanations of the Man in Yellow and the Man in Black. However, after finally convincing the psychiatrist that it was doing more harm than good— he felt like a zombie most days, and it only increased his night terrors— he was able to find a certain appreciation for the sessions. He used the breathing and sensory calming techniques particularly often, and was thankful for the times he could talk about his mother’s murder from the perspective of a grieving son, and not a guilty killer.

Interacting with the staff had been hard at first, particularly before they realized what was triggering him. If anyone touched, or even worse,  _ grabbed _ his arms and hands, he would start spiraling. 

Barry would still rather be at home, with his mom and dad, watching old musicals on the plush couch. Or walking to school with Iris, chatting aimlessly. Even just sitting in science class, enraptured, thinking about how he could apply his new knowledge to the upcoming science fair.

Barry knew that wasn’t his life now. That it never would be again. But he still tried to hang onto his hope for the future. 

~~~

Henry Allen’s life was torn apart in a single night. 

His wife was murdered in front of his eyes, but he hadn’t  _ really _ seen it. Henry had certainly seen the lightning, the strange figures, the Man in Black who trapped Barry. One second his son was standing there, then a knife was in his hands. Blue lightning flashed, then Henry watched as blood spurted out from Nora’s throat, coating his son. And then he was out like a light. His memory was strange and choppy. They kep[t him in the hospital, worried that he was having delusions. Everything felt supernatural. His concussion didn’t help the matter. At first, he’d tried to agree with his son. But what they saw was impossible. It had to be. But so was the thought of Barry, his boy, ever hurting someone.

And yet. He was written off as crazy, concussed. He began to doubt himself, what he saw. Everything came in flashes. 

And then their lawyer sat down to talk with them. She explained their situation, the case. She was trying to find the least painful route. Sometimes she still looked at them funny, like she didn’t believe them either. Henry wanted to hate her for that, but he couldn’t. They argued constantly about what approach to take.

In the end, Barry made the call.

Henry would never forget the way his son tried to look calm, strong. All Henry wanted to do was wrap him up and protect him from the world. But that wasn’t in the cards.

Barry tried to steady his voice. “If they think you did it, they might send you to prison, or worse. But the lawyer said they’ll go easier on me cause I’m a kid. And… I still know what I saw. I’m not crazy. But, but she said… She said if she claims I am, they won’t punish me as much. But dad... she also said. She said. You _ have _ to stop defending me. Stop saying you saw what I saw. They might think you’re crazy, too. You could lose your practice! You have to make sure everyone’s okay! Like Kathy, you have to make sure she’s okay. And… the lawyer lady says that if we both talk like that, we might seem like we were working together, or that it might seem…might seem, uh… premidated?”

“Premeditated,” Henry supplied. He had to choke back tears. Barry sounded both like a broken child and altogether too grown up. He shouldn’t have to go through this. Shouldn’t have any need to know what premeditated murder even meant, nevertheless how to say the damn word. Henry held his son close, and let him cry into his chest. “I’m so sorry this happened, slugger. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect your mother. That I can’t protect you…”

Barry sniffled, but pressed himself away to look Henry in his eyes. He had that slightly defiant, determined gaze. He got that look whenever he made up his mind and wasn’t going to change it. “But I can protect  _ you _ , Dad. You have to stop defending me. Please. I couldn’t help mom, but I can do this.  _ Please _ .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t lose you too…”

They stayed like that for a while, Barry crying into his shoulder, whispering pleas to Henry. Finally, as Barry pulled away once more, that same look in his eyes, Henry let the tears run down his face. “Okay, slugger. I’ll stop.”

The court dates chugged on. Henry was buried in legal minutiae and red tape. Joe, once one of his closest friends, kept trying to force Henry to accept what had happened. To accept who the killer was. They stopped talking.

Henry hardly got to see his son. Barry was kept under lock and key, and Henry had already been gone from his practice far too long. He kept hard work hours as a doctor, and days off were hard to come by. Schedules conflicted. People would talk about him visiting Barry like he was insane. And as everything piled up around him, and he dove into his work, for a while, he didn’t visit. A year passed. Henry still called and checked in on his son. Saw him at court dates. He was there when the sentence was placed on Barry. But everything was fractured, and everyone he loved and cared about was slipping through the cracks.

Henry didn’t want to admit it, would never tell Barry, but sometimes when he looked at his son, all he could see were images of that night. Of that Man in Black, arms wrapped around Barry, his son drenched in blood. 

So he didn’t visit.

~~~

On July 1st, 2001, Henry received a strange call. A man was interested in his son’s case. At first, Henry thought it might be a reporter, or a lawyer. But it had been quite a while since any public update on the murder.

Henry soon realized the mystery man was interested in the part of the story that everyone else usually ignored or discredited: his son’s accounts of the event. This man actually seemed to believe them.

They eventually met up in person. They continued talking about the case, about these Men in Lightning. Henry could feel the hope that had seeped out of him slowly returning. Police and neighbors and family be damned, his son didn’t commit that heinous crime. And they were going to prove it.

~~~

**July, 2001 — 3 Months After Barry Allen is Admitted to the Summerstone Psych Ward**

Barry’s throat was dry. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t talked to his father in… he couldn’t remember how long. Steadily, their visits had decreased. Then they just called. And then radio silence.

Barry felt that simmering burn of anger in his chest. How could his dad just shut him out? Barry was here to protect his dad, to help him. And he just  _ left _ . It was almost worse than if his dad had just died that night, too. _ Maybe that would have been better. _

Guilt washed over Barry. He’d never want his dad to die. It just hurt. It hurt to know that his dad  _ chose _ to shut him out. 

But as the ward staff ushered Barry into the visiting room, his anger melted away. His dad was sitting in one of the pathetic plastic chairs, tapping his knee. He had bags under his eyes, and they were red rimmed and puffy. Barry could just make out the sheen of tears. 

Barry didn’t question it. He simply sprinted forward, arms wrapping around his dad. Henry startled, pausing for a moment, before returning the hug.

Just hearing his dad speak was amazing. “From now on, I’m going to come as often as I can, slugger. I promise. But… There’s still talk of you around the CCPD, even the hospital. I have to be careful coming here. People are still suspicious.”

Tears welled in Barry’s eyes. He knew his dad had a reputation to uphold, a community to serve. He knew how much it took to restore faith in people. He knew that others’ opinions on him were sealed the moment they read his file. So Barry knew he should understand. To some extent he did, even if it hurt. Why did everything have to hurt? Why couldn’t he just have this? Have his dad? Barry shook his head. “I’ll be okay dad. It’ll be okay. Just. Thank you for coming. I miss you, and mom— and” Barry tried to choke back his sobs.

They stood there, hugging, crying, just like that moment when Barry made his choice.

Eventually, his dad leaned back and cleared his throat. “Listen, Barry, someone has taken an interest in your case. Someone… high profile. He believes you. He believes us. We’ll get you out.”

“Someone… believes us? Are you sure? Who?”

His dad’s expression faltered, just for a second, “I’m not at liberty to say. But I think you’d like him. He’s… a scientist.” 

Barry desperately wanted to press for more, more info, more details. But looking up at his dad’s tired eyes, he decided to just enjoy the moment. To talk about more mundane things. “How’s Kathy doing? Her cookies were the  _ best _ .” 

The two sat back down in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, chatting amicably about patients, about the neighborhood. Kathy’s treatment was a success. The community garden was just completed. His dad was considering hosting some med students and/or interns.

It was nice. But distant. Barry couldn’t  _ participate _ in what his dad talked about. Not like before. 

And… there was this sensation of dread coiling around in Barry’s stomach. A tension that hadn’t left since his dad mentioned the strange benefactor. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something felt off. Felt wrong.

Barry pushed the feeling back down to be safely ignored for the moment. Right now, he’d enjoy time with his dad. 

~~~ 

**August 2002 — 1 Year and 4 Months**

Barry wasn’t sure what strings were pulled or what palms were greased, but at last, he was allowed to attend school. 

He did have some idea of the who. Even if he didn’t trust the damn benefactor, he took the win.

Barry loved school. He loved concentrating on problem solving and learning. He also learned to ignore the ominous ward staff member that sat in every class with him. It wasn’t conducive to making friends, and Barry felt guilty for making his fellow students feel unsafe, but he was grateful for the program.

At first, Axel was jealous. It was their biggest fight to date, but Barry knew Axel was more angry with the system than with him. Axel didn’t have a chance in hell at going with his history of pranks inside and outside of the ward, and with his “troublesome” personality. It definitely took some getting used to, but Barry had found Axel to be a fiercely loyal friend, and Barry saw a weird sort of reflection of his own optimism. Axel would probably say it was like looking in a funhouse mirror. But the staff didn’t see Axel as anything but trouble.

Soon after the fight, whenever he could, Barry brought back copies of assignments and textbooks. His teachers probably wondered why he always seemed to “lose” his copy of a worksheet, but Barry was a bit of a klutz anyway already. Between the number of times he tripped in class and how often he was late despite having a staff member escort him to school, he had earned a bit of a reputation. But he was a good kid with good grades, so they let it slide. Many just started printing out an extra copy for him ahead of time.

Axel and Barry both fell in love with chemistry, although Axel was admittedly more into the… explosive side of things. Axel was also interested in mechanics, specifically the robotics class. Barry joined it on his behalf. He was never allowed to bring pieces home, too many liabilities there, but Axel would oftentimes make suggestions that he would relay back to the team. Although the students kept their distance, they always thanked Barry’s mysterious friend. 

When the robotics class won the First Tech Competition, they hosted a small at-school party and packed up some cake for Barry and Axel as thanks. He didn’t have the heart to tell them they wouldn’t be allowed to eat it.

~~~

**June 2005 — 4 Years and 3 Months**

Sirens roared and Barry shot up in bed. His blanket rolled off of him as he swung off the mattress, running to his window. An ambulance was careening into the Psych Ward, two cop cars trailing along. He could make out faint shouting, and saw a gurney being rolled out. A guy in his late twenties was sprawled out, twitching and coughing. Parts of his clothes appeared singed, one of his sleeves burned off entirely. Blood coated one of his legs. What had happened?? There was a normal hospital not too far from here, and a victim from a fire had no reason to be at the psych ward. Unless… 

Barry’s eyes were drawn to another car racing along the road. It was a sleek black, not some pompous muscle car, but not some junky piece of shit like he was used to seeing. It careened into the parking lot, tucked under the big oak tree. The ward got a surprisingly decent amount of visitors, but Barry was sure that he would have remembered seeing this car.

The sirens and flashing lights continued, and Barry watched the injured man get wheeled around the corner. He redirected his gaze to that black car. It was just sitting there, lights off. It would have been too far to make out the details of the driver’s face, even if there wasn’t glare from the morning sun. Barry couldn’t tear his eyes away.

After one police car had departed, and the other officers had gone inside to keep watch on the injured one, the black car finally shifted. The door opened in one smooth motion, and another man around the same age as the other slid out of the car. 

He had a short, shorn haircut, which was strange for his age. His grey henley snugged his chest tightly, and he seemed to have a decent frame and build. Sunglasses concealed his eyes. Even from where Barry was watching, he could feel an aura of confidence and charisma oozing off the man. 

The gears were turning in Barry’s head, trying to figure out his connection to the injured man, why he had waited so long to come out, why he had such a car.

Cool Car Dude (Barry really needed to figure out a name for him) walked across the parking lot towards the psych ward. He kept that cool-casual demeanor, looking to all the world as if he belonged right there. Just a normal guy making a normal visit.

Barry assumed he was eyeing the cameras around the hospital, but he couldn’t really tell behind the sunglasses. 

~~~

Len’s eyes carefully tracked the cameras lining the ward. They were permanently affixed, meaning no swivel— and the building wasn’t a smooth rectangle. Which meant there were blind spots.  _ Thanks for once, shitty government funding. _ Len kept his walk towards the front entrance, eyeing the last camera with a clear view of him, before slipping behind a pillar and pressing against the wall. He turned the corner to a small alcove, free of cameras. He knew he would get caught at some point, but the further into the hospital he could get, the better. 

Something caught his eye— or more accurately, someone. Some kid was peering out at him from one of the psych ward windows. Shit.

Len had a strict no hurting kids policy, but he needed to find a way to keep the kid quiet. He didn’t want the staff to be on the alert before he even got inside.

The window was in a blind spot— and was Len actually lucky for once?— so he inched his way along the wall to the window.

As he approached, he saw the kid... smiling? And waving. Maybe this wouldn’t be too hard after all.

Although muffled by the glass, he could make out the kid’s question, “Are you the injured guy’s friend?”

Len quirked his eyebrow. The kid was more observant than Len would have thought. He had been watching. 

The kid continued, “Visiting center is to the right, but he’s probably in intensive care right now. Maybe try again tomorrow?”

Len bit back a laugh. Okay, maybe not  _ that  _ observant. “I wouldn’t exactly be welcome, kid.”

Understanding seemed to dawn on his face. “The police...” His eyes narrowed. “Did you hurt anyone?”

Len felt strangely affronted. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

The kid repeated it again, more firmly. “Did you hurt anyone?”

After contemplating for a moment, Len decided to reply truthfully. “Mobsters and other criminals, yes. Never innocents, especially never women and children, and no cops or security guards, unless in self defense.” He added, just for good measure, “We don’t need the heat.”

The kid hummed, looking thoughtful.

Len tried to weigh what he wanted to say. How he wanted to say it. He knew how to threaten people until they were quaking in their boots or quite literally pissing themselves. But this was just a random kid who held no fear or ill intent. “Look, I saw you watching me. Keep your nose where it belongs— don’t alert the staff— and we won’t have a problem.”

But the kid didn’t recoil or look the least bit afraid. It was quite a change from the usual reaction. Either Len’s reputation did not proceed him in this particular ward, or this kid really wasn’t familiar with Central’s underground scene. 

“I’m Barry,” he smiled awkwardly, then hurriedly added, “Just Barry.”

Len pushed down a sigh. He really didn’t have time for this. “Well,  _ Just  _ Barry, are we clear? You never saw me.”

Then Barry laughed.  _ Laughed? _ “Did you just make a  _ dad _ joke?”

Well. Fair enough. Len opened his mouth to continue, steeling himself to threaten Barry further. He knew it would be an empty threat, he just hoped that despite revealing his policy, the kid would take it at face value.

But Barry spoke first. “I could make you a distraction. I’ve kind of had a lot of, uh, practice.” 

The kid was... offering to help him? Maybe he really was crazy. “Why help, kid? Nothing’s in it for you.”

Barry’s face scrunched up at that, and something darker passed across his eyes. “I know the police make mistakes. And I know what it’s like to want to help someone— especially someone you love.” More meaning lied behind that last statement in particular, Len could tell. But he had no reason to push. Barry seemed genuine enough, if not extremely naive, and Len didn’t exactly have time to case the place.

“Well then, I suppose we need a plan.”

~~~   


Barry felt giddy. He also felt extremely nervous. 

Cool Car Dude (somehow Barry had still forgotten to ask the guy for his name, _ why was he such an idiot _ ) had come up with a pretty airtight plan after chatting with Barry about the facilities. Barry was honestly excited to try out his new distraction.

He just hoped he was doing the right thing, helping these guys. Barry really believed what Cool Car Dude had said, that he didn’t hurt innocent people. But he didn’t know  _ why _ he believed them. Something just told Barry to trust these two. It came from that same part of him that  _ dis _ trusted this mysterious benefactor. And, even though he still couldn’t place it, Barry felt as though he had met them somewhere before… 

Barry glanced at the clock— he still had some time before their plan would be put in motion— and laid back onto the bed. Ever since the murder, that feeling of deja vu, of seeing or even hearing events and memories continued. Sometimes, Barry felt like he was dreaming in a whole other reality. 

If he closed his eyes and focused, he could nearly make things out of the fog. Barry took a deep breath and focused on the two strangers. He could feel the memories there, thrumming just below the surface.

Who was Cool Car Dude? 

_ Cool _ .

The word latched onto his mind.  _ Cool _ . No, not quite… Barry pushed his palms against his eyes. Patterns danced across his vision. Cool, cool... 

_ Cold. _

Yeah. Cold. That felt right. Familiar, even. 

Barry tried to picture… something. Anything.The only change to the darkness was a hint of blue and white. Barry tried to remember Cold’s voice. Something he said... 

A single phrase began reverberating.

_ No strings on me… _

Feelings of gratitude washed over Barry, and something a little sadder. Like a goodbye.

_ No strings on me... _

A low mechanical whirring started up. Barry felt his heart quicken. He recognized it, but what—

A sharp pain shot through Barry’s head and he bolted upright, eyes open. He was sweating. Since when had he been sweating? His legs felt cold and clammy, his skin prickled. He shivered. Barry wondered where the physical sensations were coming from. The memories? Usually he only caught glimpses of scenes or audio, never touch or emotions…What the hell was going on? Barry’s mind was reeling. Who was Cold?

But he didn’t have any more time to dwell.

The plan was about to start. 

~~~

Mick eyed the doctors with suspicion as they carted him into the intensive care unit. Four pigs were following behind, eyes stern, carrying themselves with a “holier than thou” air. Bastards ought to burn in hell.

Mick had been having a rough fucking go of it lately, and all he had wanted to do was burn down one little abandoned house. Len even made him check for squatters. Everything should have been hunky dory. 

But no, life wanted to go back and bite Mick on the ass like it always did. The house’s shoddy sewage system connected to the city’s, and a chain of explosions was set off— which did looking fucking  _ awesome _ — until him and Len were thrown back and knocked out cold. 

Mick woke up to the house roaring with flames. The heat contrasted with the cool autumn morning, and the light reflected back in the grass’ morning dew. It felt… peaceful. Even as pain seared along Mick’s shin, and he felt the tingle of burns along his arms, it was peaceful. His weak-ass leg had snapped underneath him, bent at an unnatural angle. Mick watched the flames dance at lick at the crumbling hose to distract himself.

When he caught the first sound of sirens, he slapped Len’s face. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Len sprung up, ready for a fight. Mick grunted, nodding towards his leg.

Len barely even reacted. Instead, he glanced around, not in panic, but calculation. The screech of sirens was growing louder. Mick could practically see the thoughts and plans racing behind Len’s eyes. He knew he was counting the seconds. 

Len was strong, but Mick was pretty damn big. Carrying him would be downright stupid. Pulling the car around would put it on the police’s radar, assuming they could even get into it in time. They didn’t have the cover of night, and while you might be able to outrun one cop, you couldn’t outrun the radio. Len looked pointedly down at the lighter still gripped in Mick’s hand, sneered, then whispered, “I’ll tail you.”

Moments later, the slamming of doors and feet crunching down on leaves indicated the pigs’ arrival. When the cops rounded the corner Len was already gone.

Some nurse shouting out directions brought Mick back to the present. He had to puke before they gave him an x-ray. Despite having practiced the skill dozens of times, Mick still hated it with a  _ burning _ passion. Fuck, Len and his fucking puns. Another reason why Mick would never admit that his little trick had proven helpful more than once. 

Mick only dry heaved for a moment, and the nurse’s shouting started back up at that, before he had his prize. Mick leaned up off the gurney, retching into his hand. He closed his fist around the lighter and tucked his arms to his side.

As much as he wanted to start setting everything in sight on fire, Mick knew he wasn’t in any shape to make a quick get away. He decided to give Len a couple of hours to come up with an actual plan before saying fuck it. Besides, Mick wasn’t in the mood to deal with him being all pissy. 

The day slowly passed, Mick slipping in and out of anesthesia. Weird stuff was applied to his burns. By the afternoon a cast was around his leg. If nothing else, at least the fuckers here were more efficient than a standard hospital. 

Mick started humming old show tunes to pass the time. He had just got to Singin in the Rain when he heard the door creak open.

A shaky voice called in, “Uh, Mick?”

Mick grunted in affirmative, although he wondered who the hell knew his name. Did Len have a guy on the inside?

The man— no,  _ kid _ — slipped through the door, a couple of objects in his hand and a pair of crutches hanging from his shoulders. He looked no older than 16, and Mick was sure he’d never seen his dopey mug before. The kid quietly shut the door behind him.

“Who’re you, kid?” Mick figured he could punch him out pretty easy, so no harm in talking.

“Oh, ah, I’m Barry. Cold sent me.” He gave a nervous smile.

“Don’t know any Cold.”

Barry flushed in embarrassment, and seriously, what the hell was this kid doing here? “Your friend with the black car?” ...So Len did send him. The kid rambled on, “Sorry, but we, well, we don’t have too much time. Cold, er, your friend and I— well, him mostly, you see— we made a plan, and we need to get you out, and so—”

Mick groaned. “Get to the fucking point, kid.”

Barry’s mouth closed with an audible clack of teeth. “Right. Sorry. He said you’d have a lighter.”

Mick let out a chuckle. “ _ Now _ we’re talking. What’s goin’ up in flames?” To the kid’s credit, he didn’t even flinch. He almost looked excited, even. Maybe this “Barry” wasn’t so bad.

He held up his assortment of items. “We’re setting off some smoke bombs to cover you guys while you escape. I also arranged a small scale riot. No violence, or anything, just got some crayons to write all over the walls with and enough people to cause some concern.”

“ _ You _ set up a riot?”

Barry waved his hands in some vague gesture, nearly dropping the smoke bombs as he did, “Not a  _ riot _ , riot. Just a, uh, frantic unscheduled drawing session?” Barry shrugged, sheepish. “You’d be surprised what people are willing to do for pudding.” 

Mick thought for a moment, nodded, then shrugged. Awkward silence ensued. Awkward on Barry’s part, anyway. Keeping quiet seemed to be visibly taxing. Barry opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head. Mick couldn’t really read emotions for shit, but it was painfully obvious that something was on Barry’s mind. “Spit it out, kid.”

“Oh, uh. I just… I heard you humming Good Morning, from Singin’ in the Rain. It... was one of my mom’s favorite musicals…” Barry trailed off. 

_ Was _ , huh. The kid seemed so honestly emotional, hardly like a seasoned criminal. Mick let out a huff. He wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “What are you doin’ here.”

Barry’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, “...Uh, your friend sent me?... Wait. Oh no, did you get a concussion too? Should I—”

“I meant what’re you in here for?”

“Oh. Uh.” Barry’s gaze fell to the floor. His already less than imposing figure crumpled in on itself, and he inhaled sharply. “They… they think I murdered my mom.” The kid tensed as he said it.

Bastard pigs never got anything right. Why the hell had they thought shoving the kid into a psych ward was a good idea? “Damn. Ever find the fucker who did it?” 

Barry’s eyebrows shot up. He lifted his eyes from the floor, mouth open to speak, until he caught sight of the clock. He shook his head. “We’d better get moving, Cold was scarily precise about the timing.”

Well. That was the nail in the coffin on whether or not Len really did set this up.

At least Mick would get to use his lighter.

~~~

Barry slung the crutches off his shoulder and handed them to Mick. He tried to help the man get up, but even after a litany of curses and grunts, Mick refused. Barry decided not to push his luck after Mick let out a hearty “Fuck off before I light your face on fire.” The threat didn’t feel the least bit empty.

Still, the man didn’t seem so bad.

Barry glanced back up at the clock and clutched his smoke bombs to his chest. Since discovering the wonder that was chemistry, Barry and Axel had been plotting— although Barry liked to say that  _ plotting  _ was a bit of an exaggeration— new modes of distraction. And after coming across “color bombs” in a DIY book, the two were excited to try it. It wasn’t the most complex or interesting reaction, but since the two weren’t exactly going to be allowed into a real lab anytime soon, it was the closest they could get.

It would have been easier to just get some potassium nitrate, but after checking the garden shed and finding no trace of saltpeter, they begrudgingly admitted the staff wasn’t all that foolish. What the staff did fail to realize, however, was that the ward had the ingredients to make their own from instant cold packs and salt substitutes. It was a relatively easy process, filtering and combining the substances, leaving the crystals to form in an old pudding cup. Crushing the crystals into a powder, carefully mixing it with sugar over heat while on kitchen duty. Shaping them and leaving them to cool. The process had been strangely calming. And now here he stood, finally with a reason to use them. 

Barry took a deep breath as Mick finally caught his bearings. The window for turning back had long since passed.

“Ready, Mick?”

Mick gave an assenting grunt. Barry held up the first of the smoke bombs and gave him a grin. “Let’s light em up.”

Mick’s eyes sparkled as flicked on the lighter. The flame quickly caught the peak of the color bomb. Smoke curled around them, slowly at first. Barry peeked through the door— the police guards were still turned towards Charlie and Jeff’s fake argument over the ethics of jello. He had arranged for them to be arguing in front of the exit route, so he could roll the bomb down the dead end hallway and lure the guards away. Barry did just that.

He couldn’t exactly chuck it over there for fear of it shattering, but it made a nice clang as it rolled into one of the bolted down benches. Both officers turned at the sound. The reaction was really churning now, smoke filling the air. It would cover their location, keep the cameras in the dark, and serve as a distraction as they moved through the halls. Barry knew the ward like the back of his hand. The officers didn’t.

Still, Barry had to gulp down his fear as they drew their guns. They were moving towards the noise. The plan was working. 

Barry tapped Mick on the shoulder, cracked the door open further, and the two slipped out. Charlie and Jeff kept up the noise, hiding the scuff of the crutches. Barry gave them a small smile and a nod as they walked by. 

They continued like that, methodical, Barry occasionally holding out a smoke bomb, Mick lighting it, throwing it down hallways. They threw them down random hallways as well as ones they were traversing. Paths could be tracked just as easily by what the cameras couldn’t see.

Barry listened for footsteps, for staff members. They weaved through the facility, heading for one of the back exits in a Staff Only section. He heard the commotion in the common area and couldn’t suppress a smile. The plan was working.

They continued on. So close. It was working. But fear still stirred and settled in the bottom of his stomach. The plan was a mix of strategy and luck, there was no denying that. Cold had begrudgingly admitted that even he couldn’t be 100% sure where everyone in the building was at any given time. Unfortunately, Barry knew his luck didn’t have a stellar track record.

His fear was justified as they rounded the last corner. One of the officers from before was standing in front of their exit, gun drawn. He looked young, fresh, and nervous. His hand shook on the trigger.

“Put your hands up!” 

Mick and Barry glanced at each other. Mick was obviously strong, but he couldn’t close the distance fast enough in crutches, and his maneuverability was minimal.

“I’m with the CCPD. Put your hands up!”

Memories came flooding back. Standing in that empty street. Cold. Alone. Covered in the blood of one he loved. _ Shit, _ this wasn’t the time—

“I said put your hands up!”

Something snapped.

Barry pushed Mick to the side, out of the gun’s path, and charged forward. He felt the bullet tear across the top of his shoulder, right where his heart would have been, as he slid down across the floor. Before the officer could react, Barry sprung up and, unsure what else to do, bit down on the wrist holding the gun. It hit the floor with an echoing clang, mixing with the piercing cries of the young man. Barry dove for the gun on instinct. Initially he planned to dump out the bullets. Then he realized he had no idea how the gun actually worked, and the officer was looking at him, eyes wide in fear, clutching his wrist, staring up from where he’d dove for the gun, too .

So, Barry did what he did best. Er, worst? He started rambling. “Shit! I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you. Really. Well, I mean I know I bit you, and I’m sorry. But I uh didn’t really know what else to do, so I just kind of did it.” Barry glanced down at the wrist the man was clutching. Blood trickled down his arm. “Oh FUCK. It’s bleeding. It’s bleeding really bad. I’m so sorry—” Barry began reaching out, but the man flinched away. His eyes flicked to the gun, still in hand. Oh right. “I’m not going to shoot you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just trying to get the bullets out. I just want to help my friend. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Shit shit shit. Really, I’m sorry.” Barry tucked the gun into the back of his pants. He ripped the bottom of his shirt, crouching down on instinct to wrap the man’s hand. 

But the officer took that as his opportunity. He lurched forward, grabbing Barry by the arms. A spark, a panic, ran through his body, even stronger than before. His mind was sent reeling.

_ No no no nonono stopityoucan’t don’t touch me _ .  _ I won’t hurt them. Never. Stopstopstop— _

Barry shrieked, thrashing. 

The guard tumbled backwards, onto his ass, panic in his eyes. But Barry didn’t stop. This man wasn’t allowed to touch him. Or hurt his friends. Or hurt anyone. Ever.

_ You can’t hurt her, youcan’t hurt her. Don’t touchme,youcan’t—  _

Barry’s vision went white, he was seeing stars. He couldn’t breathe. He was dimly aware of himself as he punched the officer in the nose, once, twice, again, again, again, blood gushing out. “ _ DON’T EVER FUCKING TOUCH ME. _ ”

God, there was so much blood. Barry’s lungs were suffocating in the smoke and from his sobs, and fuck, why was he crying. His face was wet, his hand, too. Blood dripped down his shoulder. Barry’s heartbeat echoed in his ears. Fuck. Deep breaths. In, Out. 1, 2, 3, 4...

His vision swam as he stood up. The officer was on the floor, panting.

_ He’s alive. _ A flurry of emotions ran through Barry. But his eyes refocused. He kept breathing. 1, 2, 3, 4. This officer wasn’t the Man in Black. He was just doing his job. 

And Barry had a job to do. He pushed down the bile, the guilt, the panic, everything rising in his throat. 1, 2, 3, 4. The guard was incapacitated. The door was right there. Barry wiped away his tears and turned back to face Mick. He tried not to snuffle. “Let’s go, Mick.”

Mick had just stood there, watching. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move to stop it. Didn’t launch into screams or accusations. He didn’t offer any comforts or platitudes, either.

But as Barry moved towards the door, so did Mick, swinging along on his crutches.

The door opened first. Barry didn’t have a watch, but he was sure it was at the exact pre-planned time. Cold stood there, leather jacket snug, piercing blue eyes taking in the scene. “Mick, what the hell did you do?”

“‘Sn’t me, boss. The kid did it.”

Barry saw a flicker of surprise cross Cold’s face. And why the hell did that make Barry blush? “I didn’t mean to, but I just—”

Mick grunted, “Pig was gonna shoot me. Kid did what he had to.”

Barry could see the doubt in Cold’s eyes as they ran up and down the bruised and bloodied officer. And why did  _ that _ hurt so much? Barry wished he could explain, but there was no excuse. “I just, he was going to hurt Mick, and then he grabbed my arms, like the man who— and I just. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to be who they think I am. I’m not. Please. I’m not.”

Barry wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince them or himself. He could feel the edges of panic. _ Breathe, dumbass, _ he screamed at himself. 1, 2, 3, 4. The seconds of quiet waiting for a response felt like hours. But when they did come, Cold’s words held no anger or fear. “Okay Barry. Thank you for protecting Mick.”

Mick huffed at that, murmured something like “I can protect myself fuckwad,” but nodded. Louder, he said, “‘S okay, kid. The bastard’s alive.”

They really weren’t judging him for it. They didn’t think he was crazy. Barry took one last fortifying breath. “You two better get going. I don’t think the officer radio-ed in, but someone probably heard us.”

Cold nodded. His calculating gaze shifted from the hallway to Barry. His eyes were a sharp, piercing blue, with an ever-present sparkle of mischief. He was planning something, Barry was sure. “Thank you for the help, kid. You know… I don’t think they’ll appreciate what you’ve done here.”

Barry glanced over to Mick, but the pyromaniac only returned his  _???  _ look.

The exchange amused Cold, but he continued on, “You could tag along with us. Until we’re out of town, anyway.”

Barry felt his breath catch. He could get out of this place? Be free? He’d never seriously considered it an option. Barry ran through the possibilities in his head. There was so much he had yet to see, may never see, trapped in this building. He could be out there, watching the stars, walking through mom’s favorite park. Go somewhere without a staff member breathing down his neck. But… He’d be on the run for the rest of his life. He might never see his dad again. He wouldn’t actually be able to go to museums or seminars or really any large public gathering. Although he had the help of these two people now, he had no guarantee of finding a support system or income once they parted. Beyond that, he would also confirm everyone’s accusations. You don’t run if you’re innocent.

Tears welled up in his eyes again. “I… thank you. But I can’t.” Barry had to have hope that his dad and their mysterious benefactor could clear everything up. He couldn’t throw away that chance. He couldn’t. 

Snart paused, his eyes passing over Barry with one last calculating appraisal. “I understand, Barry.” He held the door open wider, and Mick swung through. Barry could see that same black car, engine running, ready for a get away. This was it. 

Barry didn’t want to watch them go. He began to turn, but Snart cleared his throat.

“I don’t think I took the opportunity to tell you my name. It’s Snart. Leonard Snart.” He paused, looking at Barry intently. Was that supposed to mean something?  _ Snart. Leonard Snart…? _

Barry let out a laugh. Of course! “Next you’re going to tell me ‘shaken, not stirred?” 

For a moment Cold looked taken aback, and Barry worried he had said the wrong thing. But then Cold started laughing, too. “Okay,  _ Just _ Barry.”

Barry groaned. “At least I didn’t  _ mean  _ to say that. You’re the one referencing James Bond.” He paused, trying to simultaneously mimic Bond and Cold. “And I’m Allen. _ Barry Allen.” _

“See,  _ that’s _ why you don’t like the reference. Everyone would think your first name is Alan. You’re just Jealous.”

Barry snorted. “Jealous of the name ‘Snart?’ Really? I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Sure thing, Alan Berry.” Snart snapped his fingers, a facsimile of realization crossing his face. “Are you that new Strawberry Shortcake character? My sister keeps—”

The officer’s radio crackled to life, and Barry bit back his retort, settling for an eye roll.

Snart let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s our cue.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. He passed it to Barry. “If you ever need our help once you get out of this dump, don’t be afraid to get in touch. Memorize what’s on there, then get rid of it.”

The sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. Barry always had a knack for spatial awareness, although he never imagined using it for this. “My best guess is that they’re two right hand turns and a hallway away.” 

Snart smirked, and dammit, Barry really wanted to impress him. “Good. We have a second more to chat, then.” Snart took one last gaze around the room. “If I’m honest, and I’m usually not, I don’t think you can lie your way out of this anymore. The guard saw what happened, and unless you want to kill him so he doesn’t talk, you don’t have many options. I can still give you a nice punch to the head so they think we threatened or manipulated you, then left you for dead. But dealing with this’ll be up to you.”

Before Barry could stop himself, a phrase slipped out, plucked out of the storm that was his mind, “Expect the plan to go off the rails.” 

“...Throw away the plan.” Snart’s eyes narrowed as he finished the line. It summed up their predicament surprisingly well. Barry wondered where they’d each heard it from. He could tell Snart was wondering, too.

They just watched each other for a moment.

Snart was the first to break the silence. “So, about that punch?” Barry still thought it was a good idea. But he didn’t really want to be punched out by one of the few friends he had in this world. Well. Maybe friends was stretching it a bit. Or maybe Barry just had a messed up definition of the term. 

Either way, instead of accepting the offer, Barry walked over to the metal door and smashed his skull against it. He felt part of it slice the side of his head, and hissed at the pain. He felt very worryingly dizzy. “Got it covered.”

Snart watched him, that hint of surprise flashing again, only in his eyes. Barry really liked seeing the emotions slip out from behind that poker face. _ It’s easier to read his emotions now, before he’s Cold.  _ And woah, where did that thought come from? And how did he know it was Cold with a capital C? Barry looked down at the paper. Man, the room was really spinning. He read it once, twice, three times for good measure. He felt a mnemonic forming in his head. Then he ate it.

Snart couldn’t hold back his laugh at that, and Barry grinned happily as the older man spoke. “I think you’ll be taking Mick’s slot in the intensive care unit, cause that must be one hell of a concussion.”

Barry let out an honest to god giggle. “See you around, Snart.”

Snart squinted his eyes for a moment, rolling something around inside his head. “Call me Len.” 

Barry smiled, and he felt that all too familiar blush returning. A nickname just felt weirdly personal. Good, but weird. “Alright. Len it is.”

Len smiled too, just a little uptick in the corner of his mouth. “Be seeing you, Scarlet.”

The door closed with a clang, and Barry lowered himself to the floor with a soft sigh. 

_ Scarlet, huh.  _ Barry felt a not-unpleasant kind of warmth creeping into his chest. Blood trickled down his head, the room was spinning, an officer he beat up was a few feet away. He was probably going to get locked in solitary. And yet...

Barry couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, criticisms or suggestions are super helpful!! I've been trying to work up the nerve to reply to comments, but I'm kind of really bad at talking to people, even online, so I just wanted to say thank you for commenting, and I am reading them, I just get nervous. So uh. Yeah. I find it easier to just address people vaguely in this Notes section. I'm sorry about that.
> 
> And I hope everyone is having a good day :D


	4. The Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry sends some time in solitary before getting transferred off to Iron Heights. Once there, Barry learns some new skills.  
> (This is like the driest summary ever lmao)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Ello! School has been kicking my ass, but at last, fall break is here and the first quarter is over! Sorry for taking so long :/
> 
> ANYWAY— just a couple things I wanted to say, note that there are low-key spoilers, but not like, anything major?
> 
> 1\. TRIGGER WARNING— there is attempted rape/non-con, but it is prevented. If you want to avoid it, scroll past after the “Until today, anyway” and to the next section (after the ~~~).  
> —> If you didn’t read: Basically, Mardon helps Barry stop his captors, Barry realizes it’s the guy who has been low key stalking him, and when Barry asks why Mardon helped, he says it’s because Barry reminds him of someone. 
> 
> 2\. Mardon is high-key OOC. I’m taking bits and pieces of him from the show, and the comics, and a dash from other fanfics I’ve read. So he’s a bit marshmallow-y right now?? He’s the version who belonged to a mob family, but he still loves his brother. Comic version tends to be more old/wizard-y, so I tried to mix that with the temper he shows in the TV show. Idk how I did but uh yeahhh
> 
> 3\. And sorry for this hella long chapter note, really guys, but just a heads up— there’s no Len until the very end, and he’ll probably still be in and out of Barry’s life for a little bit. I’m hoping to do a longer bit from his POV next chapter (which will be called the Runaway or the Shunned, I think. Any guesses as to who Barry is meeting next?) but yeah.
> 
> 4\. And is anyone still reading this? Idk man. Basically, I’m kind of ignoring the legal system— I spent a good two hours reading up on it before saying fuck it. Besides, legal minutiae might very well be different on their Earth. Right?
> 
> 5\. I got the Spanish phrase from a friend, she’s not a native speaker, but she is in Spanish III. If you have any advice on writing a Hispanic character, or Spanish corrections, please let me know!
> 
> But yeah! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! :D

Barry couldn’t stop shaking.

He needed something to ground him. He had been thrown into a padded horror movie style room, the kind used for solitary. Axel had been in a few times, but usually not for more than a day. He was always shaken up by it, though, being a people person at heart. He liked interacting and getting reactions out of others. Barry was always careful not to give the staff a reason to put him there.

The panic and shaking still wouldn’t stop. Barry felt words tumbling out of his mouth, but everything felt numb. Memories and images and phantom feelings ran through him. That blinding lightning, the screams of his parents. With nothing else on hand, Barry dug his nails into his thighs. The sharp pain drew him back, focused. Everything else was numb, but that, _that_ , he could feel. It was real. He pressed and he breathed. 

Eventually, Barry opened his eyes. Angry red crescents dotted his legs, his arms. Blood was oozing out of a few, and he dabbed at them with his shirt. It was calming, watching the little marks slowly fade, wiping away the red liquid. He felt in control. He breathed.

Although the intense panic was fading, the more general fear remained. 

He tucked his knees into his chest, huddled in the corner, and waited.

~~~

Barry couldn’t tell how much time had passed; there were no windows, and he lacked any kind of internal clock. He was still fed. Occasionally he heard muffled voices outside his door, probably trying to figure out what to do with him.

This time, the voices were much louder, almost as if they were yelling. 

Still shaky, He made his way over to the door and pressed his ear to it. The words were mostly indiscernible, but he thought he heard his psychiatrist’s voice, as well as his father’s. 

“You _can’t_ just…”

“...old enough…”

“...transfer…”

“Like hell you will!”

“...calm down…”

“... mentally sound…”

He heard the clatter of footsteps, and the voices faded completely.

~~~

The news came later that— was it even day?— and Barry just felt numb. Like this was just another one of his many nightmares. They were worse in the small cell, no window or knowledge that Axel was just a wall away.

A man had peered in, dressed in a different uniform than that of the psych ward staff. He seemed stiffer, too, less kind. There was no compassion in his eyes. “Bartholomew Allen. Tomorrow you will be transferred to Iron Heights.”

And with that, he had slammed the door closed once more, leaving Barry with his thoughts.

He had started shaking again, breathing heavily. He knew it was bad and entirely unhelpful, but he couldn’t make it stop. 

He couldn’t do this, couldn’t go to _prison_ . He liked his psych ward of weird slightly crazy friends where he ran a silly underground pudding ring. He didn’t want to be _there_ , with real criminals, who explicitly chose to violate the law. Who chose to hurt others.

But he chose to hurt that guard, didn’t he? Maybe he was here for a reason. Maybe, that night—

He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

~~~

Marco Mardon met Barry Allen on a dark and stormy night.

Well, “met” may have been a bit of a stretch. He really just watched as the scrawny kid was tugged along the hallway by the guards. Inmates shouted obscenities and filthy threats at him, but, surprisingly, after his initial cowering, the kid stiffened his back and simply walked, eyes forward, never glancing around at the other inmates. His eyes were still too open, too honest, an odd mix of fear and determination shining through. But Marco could see the strength in him. And just a gleam of something else. Something playful, something light.

It reminded him of his brother.

~~~

After the first few days, Barry noticed the man stalking him in the prison. Stalking might be a little harsh, but still. If Barry was looking for it, he could almost always find the man watching him. But it wasn’t with that same awful leer other inmates often directed at him. It confused him, and as much as he wanted to just approach the man and ask, he figured it was a bad idea.

So Barry tried his best to ignore the guy and acclimate.

Barry’s cellmate had no interest in interacting, but he didn’t seem ready to attack him either. So small victories.

The same could not be said for other prisoners. He was often cat called and taunted— he’d even been cornered once or twice, but nothing he couldn’t get out of.

Until today, anyway. 

He’d just been on his way back in from the yard when an arm caught him and tugged him aside to a less frequented hallway. 

Barry’s senses immediately kicked into overdrive. He began thrashing wildly, even more so when other arms and hands came to grab him from behind. They pinned his arms to his sides and pressed him against the wall. A hand covered his mouth, muffling his screams, and he couldn’t open his jaw enough to bite it. Another hand moved to cover his eyes. He kicked out at their shins wildly. One lackey’s hold loosened as Barry made contact with his leg, but it didn’t last for long.

He only heard a pained hiss of “Fucking brat,” before the back of his head collided with the facility’s wall. His entire head ached, even more than when he’d done it to himself. But it didn’t stop. They kept slamming, slamming, until he felt like he would puke or pass out. Stars danced across his blackened vision. He felt his hair becoming matted with blood.

A voice, dark and gravely in the disgusting, 80 year old smoker kind of way spat into his ear, “Feel free to scream, but if you do, know that you’ll be trading the fun activities we have planned for something more... unsavory.” The man removed his calloused hand and held up a makeshift shiv to Barry’s eyes. It glittered as the mystery man— Barry dubbed him Smoker in his head— turned it back and forth.

The hand returned to cover his eyes, and Barry felt himself tense even further. Smoker ran his thumb over Barry’s bottom lip. Barry opened his mouth, ready to bite, but Smoker yanked his hand away with ease, already expecting it. 

“Tch, that won’t do, brat.” He signaled something to the other two men, who were still restraining Barry’s arms. He could feel his rapid heartbeat slamming through his chest, in his veins. They threw Barry to the ground, and his vision briefly returned, before they turned him over and pushed his chest into the ground. 

One of the lackeys was on his right, the other on his left. Each held one leg and one arm to the ground. Their grip was bruising.

Smoker soon settled over his left leg, his hands reaching forward to run across Barry’s back. Barry could feel the man hardening. His stomach churned, and he resumed his frantic thrashing until he felt the press of a blade against his nape. Smoker bent closer to his ear, intercepting Barry’s attempted head butt with ease, “Stop misbehaving. If you won’t let us use your mouth, we’ll have to try a different hole.”

Barry tried to hold back his tears, the sobs threatening to wrack his body. He didn’t dare scream, but he could hear himself mumble incoherently. Die, or live to fight another day. He didn’t know which was worse.

The man ran his hand down Barry’s back once more, this time reaching to push down his pants. He felt the cold air against his ass, and waited for the hand to return. To violate him.

But it didn’t come. Instead, he suddenly became aware of the sound of footsteps. He felt the grip on his shoulders loosen, attention diverted to this newcomer. But he still felt the press of the blade, knew it was drawing a thin line of blood.

Barry tried to crane his neck, see whomever had interrupted. Whether they were there to help or get in on the action.

A smooth, level voice, with a hint of a Spanish accent, pierced the silence, “How about you three run along?”

Smoker let out an amused chortle. “You don’t get no say here, Mardon. You ain’t really part of the Family. So fuck off.” 

The silence resumed, but Barry could feel the tension in the air. 

After a minute, Smoker turned the shiv on the intervene-er— Mardon, was it?— and Barry seized his opportunity. He kicked up his left leg, slamming it into Smoker’s crotch. Barry cringed at the feeling, but he knew he had succeeded when Smoker let out a strangled yelp of surprise and pain. Mardon dashed forward, footsteps rapid, and he heard Mardon’s fist slam into the guy. The shiv clinked to ground, and he heard it slide across the floor.

Smoker and Mardon began some kind of fistfight, although Barry could really only assume based on what he was hearing— vague thuds and scuffling feet.

The grip on Barry’s right shoulder loosened, the man gearing up to fight Mardon. Clearly they underestimated Barry.

He jerked out from under the lackey’s hand, towards his other captor, startling them both. Barry angled his body up, then slammed it back down onto the hand still hovering in the air. He heard a sickening crunch as the man’s hand met the concrete beneath him.

Then, the idiot let go of Barry’s leg, too, to clutch at his injured hand. Perfect.

Barry heard the meaty thump of someone hitting the floor. For a moment the panic returned, like bile in his throat, and shit, he needed to make his move _now_ —

When Mardon knocked out the lackey to his left. 

The right one pushed up off the ground, searching for the shiv, or maybe for an escape. But Barry was faster. He leapt up and landed a solid enough punch to send the man toppling backwards. Mardon came around to deliver the final blow, knocking the man out for the time being.

Finally, Barry had a moment to register who exactly had intervened for him. And it was… the man that had been stalking him. Great.

He tried to keep his breathing even. He hoped the man didn’t desire any kind of _compensation_. After a moment of awkward silence, Barry asked, “Why’d you help me?” He still remembered those same words Len had spoken, although it seemed so long ago now, “Nothing was in it for you.”

The man huffed out a sigh, carefully avoiding Barry’s eyes. “You reminded me of someone, kid. That’s all.” Barry opened his mouth to speak, but Mardon cut him off, “Now we better scram. The guards might think they fought themselves.”

~~~

Barry didn’t see Mardon for another three days, but when he did, the man was sitting alone in a secluded corner of the yard.

Everyone else seemed to ignore him or steer clear. Barry should probably steer clear, too. But then again, he was always a bit impulsive, a leap-before you look kind of person. And Barry really didn’t know where else to sit.

He felt eyes trained on him as he walked across the yard towards that single table. Maybe this was a bad idea. But he wouldn’t get his answers about who this man was unless he approached. Besides, he didn’t seem nearly as intimidating after saving Barry with no questions asked, and no demands made.

Mardon glanced at him, briefly, but otherwise ignored his presence. Barry cleared his throat as he took a seat. “Uh… I just. Wanted to thank you. For your help the other day.”

The man offered a half-hearted shrug, “Don’t mention it.”

“I’m Barry, by the way.” Barry held out a hand. Handshakes were still a thing, right?

“Marco Mardon.” The man paused, looking intently at Barry’s face, watching for... a reaction? Why did people keep doing that? First Len, now Mardon. Was that, like, a criminal thing? Was he missing something? 

Barry smiled at him. “Well. Um. Yeah, thanks Mardon.” After another beat of awkward silence, Barry let his hand fall back to his side.

“You don’t know who I am, do ya?”

“Uh, should I?”

Mardon shook his head. He let out a chuckle. “The hell’d they pull you from?”

Barry remained quiet. He felt the eyes searing into his back even harder.

“I’m from the Mardon family, kid. Got my ass put in jail for refusing to take the head, brother Claudio got it instead. Some higher-ups wanted to teach me a lesson, so now I’m stuck here for five years.”

“The Mardon family?” 

“You don’t know the families?” Barry shook his head. “The Santinis? The Darbynians?”

Barry suddenly found his feet very interesting. And the dirt. Dirt was good, too. “I haven’t really been anywhere but the ward or school in… four, five years? I’m sorry if I’m supposed to know.”

Mardon shook his head, but he didn’t seem angry. “Shit. No wonder you came up to me. You don’t have a fucking clue.” Mardon slapped Barry on the shoulder. “The families I’m talkin’ about ain’t just ‘families,’ they’re the mafia.”

Oh. 

“And you can’t be seen hangin’ round with me. Other families think mine’s a joke, or still think offing me would get ‘em on some other families’ good side. Wanna twist a knife in my fuckin’ gut. Best get outta here before they start making assumptions.”

~~~

Barry only realized how true that statement was a few weeks later.

He had just finished mopping the hall, and was on his way to clock out of cleaning duty, when he heard the noise. A strangled, choked out grunt echoed from around the corner, along with the scuffle of feet. And he knew that he really shouldn’t go check it out. Really. He did. 

He should be walking straight to the supply closet to put his mop away. Yup.

Definitely _not_ heading the opposite direction.

He’d already turned the corner to chase the sound, cart trailing along behind him, before he thought through it all. 

He held back a gasp as he came to a halt at the scene before him.

A burly bald man with a sadly patchy beard held a knife against Mardon’s neck. Three others stood around, watching, sneering. Bruises were blooming along Mardon’s jawline. Shit. What had Barry gotten himself into?

But even as Barry came to a stop, the cart’s momentum didn’t. It didn’t go far, but the squeak of the wheels was practically a screech in the silence.

Mardon’s captors all turned to face Barry and his stupid squeaky cart. So much for the element of surprise. Or really any kind of plan or sense of tact.

For a brief moment, time seemed to freeze. Barry stared at them. They stared at him.

Then all hell broke loose. Mardon seized Bald Guy’s hand, twisted it back, and grabbed the shiv. The three goons charged forward, screaming out curses at Barry. 

Barry looked around for some kind of weapon or means of defense. He might not have a shiv, but he did have, uh… a mop? He pulled the mop out of the cart’s bucket, swinging violently. The wet end of the mop slapped loudly across Goon #1’s face, then #2’s. They made gagging noises as they breathed in the damp cloth and the smell of prison floor. #3 got his bearings, though, and grabbed the mop with a firm hand. 

Barry tried to wretch it back, but #3 barely budged. The man reached his hands forward, likely about to take Barry’s “weapon” for himself. Shit. Barry pressed his end to the ground, leaned forward, and stepped on the center of the mop with a loud _crunch_. The mop split in two, and #3 was stuck with mostly mop and not a lot of stick. Barry held up his side like a baseball bat, the end surprisingly sharp.

#1 and #2 were back on their feet, already recovered from the mop-slap. Double shit.

Barry was itching to run away. Just like when he was younger, running from bullies, from his problems. But Mardon had helped him before; he really ought to return the favor. He hazarded a glance behind the goons. Bald Guy was slumped to the floor now, and Mardon was running forward, towards Barry. 

Barry clattered around, kicking the cart to cover up Mardon’s footsteps. The three were closing in on Barry— 

Mardon collided into #1’s backside, gripping him in a sleeper hold. He swung the man around like a human shield, #2 lurching forward to help his colleague. 

#3 rushed towards Barry, but Barry was light on his feet and dodged easily, missing the punch. He swung around, wood raised, and struck #3 across the back of the head. He fell to the floor with a meaty thud.

#1 was slumped down too, finally knocked out from the hold. Mardon and #2 were fighting hand to hand, nearly on the other side of the hall. #2 landed a lucky hit to the back of Mardon’s knee, sending him down to the floor. The goon grasped Mardon’s throat in a choke hold. He spit out a string of insults, anger visible even from where Barry stood.

Barry could see Mardon’s finger’s twitching. Was he _convulsing_? … Wait. No. It was too deliberate. A signal. Barry put two and two together, and (doubting his throwing abilities) slid the wood across the floor. 

Mardon caught it in his hand, #2 still distracted, focused on staring him down. Mardon didn’t even look away, barely gave a sign that he had the wood. Then, in one swift motion, he knocked #2 out with a satisfying crack.

Mardon pushed the limp body off of himself and got on his feet. He rubbed at his neck, then stretched, back popping. He looked at Barry for a moment. “Not bad. Guess this makes us even, huh?” 

~~~

Marco was sitting at his usual table. Alone.

He was always alone now. Just him and that fucking stupid hole in his heart wouldn’t close up. He missed Claudio. Not even really the Claudio he had left. An earlier Claudio with sparkling eyes and an excitement for life. Not some tired mob boss.

Maybe that’s why he helped the kid. Barry. He didn’t look like much, but he was pretty scrappy in that fight. Hand to hand was harder for gangly light weights, especially if they didn’t know how to use their opponent’s momentum and size to their advantage. Marco knew because Claudio was the same way. He still remembered taking defense courses with his younger brother, even before they really knew about the family business.

Marco missed his brother. He was angry at him, too. He almost, but not quite, feared him. What he was becoming.

Marco leaned back, let his eyes slip closed, ears still open in case anyone wanted to try something. 

A few moments later he heard the soft padding of footsteps.

Barry was walking up to the table. Again. Marco opened his eyes.

“Uh… Mardon?”

Mardon gave a nod to continue. He had been talkative enough last time around.

Barry ran a hand through his hair. “Well, you see… I was... kind of wondering, if you could maybe, uh…” Barry laughed, sheepish. “Teach me how to do that thing with your arm? The one that made those guys pass out?” 

“You want me… to teach you the sleeper hold?”

Barry gave a terse nod, “That, or really anything that has to do with self defense. I don’t have much to offer, but I’d be willing to help you with any future fights like that one. Or anything else, within reason, of course.” He gave a tight smile, but Marco could still see the determination shining in his eyes.

Marco sighed. “...Okay.”

Barry’s eyes lit up and he beamed up at him. 

Just like his brother, whenever he got what he wanted. Damn.

~~~

Later that year, Barry received an unexpected visitor. His dad had called a few times, never coming in person, but he wasn’t all that surprised. He knew his dad still loved and believed him. But he also knew it could drag his dad down with him. Barry knew how much he cared about his practice, about his patients.

So, he was already surprised when he heard he had an in-person visitor. He was even more surprised to find out the visit was “off the record.” Like that wasn’t shady as hell. Or corrupt on the cops part.

He walked into the room, a ball of nervous energy coiling in his stomach.

The man sitting across from him was strangely dressed, almost as if in disguise. Shit. Maybe he was.

Was Barry about to be murdered? No, surely not. But…

His stomach lurched even harder at the man’s presence. The very air seemed agitated, out of balance. Like an aura of negativity and death was pouring out from him.

Barry was ready to call the whole thing off, yell for the guards, until rapidly, almost _too_ rapidly, the man unwound the scarf and threw off his sunglasses. 

“Hello, Mr. Allen.” 

Barry felt his breath catch in his throat, “ _H-Harrison Wells?!_ ”

“Yes. I know your father has mentioned me.”

“My… dad? Mentioned _you_?”

“Indeed. You see, ah… I’ve been your ‘benefactor’ the last couple of years. I decided it was finally time to visit.” The man glanced around, contemplative, “At first, I thought your transfer here to Iron Heights would be rather problematic. However, with the right negotiating, you may very well receive parole. Get back out there into the world.”

A spark of hope fluttered in Barry’s chest. But… “Forgive my bluntness, sir, but. Why do you care?”

Wells leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile, “As your father probably informed you, I believe that there truly are these so-called “men of lightning.” In fact, I think they may be products of dark matter, similar to—“

“What’s found in your particle accelerator!” Barry gasped.

Wells looked mildly impressed. “It’s still in development, of course, and wasn’t even around at the time of the murder. But we at STAR Labs know dark matter has to be involved. Your father let us take some readings from your childhood home, and we were able to find traces of it. We really do believe you to be innocent, and hopefully, you’d be willing to aid us in our search for answers.”

Barry found himself nodding along as Wells spoke. _Finally._ His first chance at finding who was really responsible for his mother’s death.

~~~

Marco— Mardon had started insisting on Barry calling him that— set up a training regimen for him. 

Barry really didn’t love working out. He kind of hated it, in fact. But it was a somewhat welcome distraction from the woes of reality. Really, he missed chemistry and problem solving. He missed sharing textbooks with Axel. He tried to earn more trust from the staff, always making sure to be on his best behavior, in hopes of getting an in-prison job, something to occupy his mind. 

Of the different types of workouts, he didn’t mind running, though. It actually helped clear his head, and he got to look at things other than concrete walls and scowling faces. Even if he really only got to look at the same stretch of trees and buildings just outside the fence.

He was still scrawny, but slowly, he felt himself gaining muscle. The amount he could lift increased. He could run faster, and farther.

Barry still caught a lot of shit from other inmates, but he was getting better at being non-reactive. Word got around that he was under Mardon’s protection, and even if most of the rumors included him being a kept boy, he didn’t really care. In a strange way, Barry and Marco both viewed each other as relatives. Barry had taken to calling Marco bro or brother, and in turn, Marco started calling him primo, or cousin in English.

Marco was a surprisingly great teacher. Anger and frustration still got the better of him oftentimes, but Barry helped him direct it at other things, or into training. 

~~~

Marco had taken to hanging out with Barry. They spent time training, discussing books, just sitting together in the yard. It was… nice. 

Marco always liked the rainy days, when the clouds turned grey and swirled and rumbled overhead. He’d often lay back on the table, staring up into the sky.

It was one of those cloudy, rainy days when the anniversary of Barry’s mother’s murder came around. Although Marco didn’t know it at the time.

Marco had noticed something was up with Barry— he was less talkative, less animated. His eyes lacked their usual light. Still, he didn’t pry. He never was too good with emotions. But he still remembered how he used to soothe Claudio as a child.

Slowly, and just loud enough for Barry to hear, Marco began singing Spanish lullabies. 

He ran through the same few he knew a couple more times, until he saw the tension ease out of Barry’s shoulders. They sat in companionable silence, just watching the sky.

Soon a light sprinkle of rain began to fall, and the guards yelled for everyone to rush inside. 

He heard the kid sniffle, just once, as they sat back up. Barry had that same odd sort of determined look in his eye. “I know I keep asking things of you, and you can say no, of course, but. Well, uh. Could you teach me Spanish? It just… it sounds beautiful.”

~~~

It was amazing what you could listen in on as a scrawny (although he was more gangly than anything, now) white kid with a baby face to boot.

Barry soon realized a common tactic in Iron Heights was talking in your native language when telling secrets. Sometimes people just talked in their language to talk, but oftentimes Barry could get good information. It was patchy at first, just recognizing a word here or there, but he improved surprisingly fast. Language had structures and formulas, patterns and conventions. Like the names of chemical structures, or even the structures themselves. But it was an art, too. Exceptions and colloquialisms that couldn’t always be accounted for. It was fun though. A puzzle to keep him occupied.

He even began picking up a few basic phrases in other languages, sometimes from directly asking, or from situational context. And lots of curse words. _Lots_ of curse words.

He didn’t get to speak much, especially since he didn’t want his secret getting out. He rather enjoyed eavesdropping, and it had gotten Marco and him out of more than one sticky situation.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t get them out of the situation they were currently in.

An inmate— Barry thought he remembered his name being Bill— sneered, “I see you’re here with your fucking sissy whore, Mardon.”

Bill and his maybe-friends John and Chris had attempted to ambush them. Which was really quite stupid on their part. By now, most people had realized not to mess with Marco and Barry. They never killed anyone, but most assailants ended up with nothing to show for their efforts but bruises and some time in solitary. But these three inmates were new, and clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. Yet.

Chris was restraining Barry, arms held against his back. Really, it was laughable. He could still use both his legs and head. They probably only saw Mardon as the real threat. It was why Barry both hated and loved his appearance. 

Barry glanced at Marco, who gave a slight nod. It was time to test Barry’s skills. He slammed his head back into his captor, slipped out of the lackey’s grip, elbowing him in the nuts as he went. The man collapsed to the ground.

Then Bill pulled a shiv.

Barry took a single deep breath to recalibrate. They had just started knife training, or rather, “how to remove a knife from the equation training,” last week. He could really use some backup. But the other guard had Mardon pinned against the wall, arms and head included, and with a lot more care. Which meant this was up to Barry.

Bill lurched forward, Barry just skirting the knife as Bill swung wide. Barry continued dancing, taunting, just out of reach, just waiting for the man to slip up, to— Bill stabbed the knife forward, in one straight motion, and that’s all Barry needed. He grabbed Bill’s arm, one hand planted on his wrist, the other on his bicep, and twisted. Hard.

The knife clattered to the ground. Barry kneed the man in the stomach, twisted the man’s arm behind his back, and slipped an arm around his neck. 

“Cuidado con lo que dices.” He whispered into Bill's ear as the man collapsed.

John, the one holding Mardon against the wall, appeared to be shiv-less and not very thrilled with the turn of events. He cast wide eyes around the scene before him. Maybe they could do this the easy way.

The adrenaline was still pumping, so Barry channeled that rare inner bravado. “Get out of here and we’ll forget we saw you.”

The man hesitated, but after one final glance, retreated around the corner. 

Marco turned around to smile at Barry. “Testing out some insulting spanish phrases, primo?”

Barry grumbled. “I can’t use ’em on you.”

Marco chuckled and Barry couldn’t hold back his smile.

~~~

Barry was 18 when he saw Len again.

He had heard occasional word of Len and Mick’s stints in Iron Heights, but was never put into the same cell block or schedule rotation. They weren’t caught often, but when they were, they never went longer than a month before escaping. If that. He still kept an ear out for them when they were in, how they were doing, but he was never able to get too much information.

So, sue him if he maybe-kind-of got a little excited and overwhelmed at their sudden presence in the yard, and ran up to them before considering all the implications. 

Just like with Mardon, everyone stared as he walked towards the duo. He had gotten used to watching his back, and felt the steady thrum of eyes. Nothing entirely unexpected.

He put on his best smile as he approached, “Hey Len! Hey Mick!”

A small smirk formed on Len’s lips, but Mick only furrowed his brow.

Barry lifted his hand to gesture, a habit he had yet to break, but he realized what a foolish move that was. Mick lurched forward at the gesture, arm swinging. Barry ducked under it smoothly, but Mick’s other arm came forward and snatched his shirt collar.

Mick pulled him forward, and Barry let the momentum carry him. Momentum was key when up against an opponent physically bigger or stronger than you. Barry swung himself back under Mick’s arm, twisting the man’s wrist, and forced him to let go. The force of the pull kept him stumbling forward, past Mick. The two turned to face each other again.

Barry really didn’t want to fight, and dammit, if Mick would just stop for a second so he could _explain_ , “Hey, it’s me— Barry?” The statement somehow turned into a question as he dodged another punch, light on his feet and more prepared.

Len didn’t join either party. Just watched, waited. Barry cast him a dirty look. Len’s smirk only grew. Asshole.

Barry gestured to himself, “It’s me, cmon. From the psych ward?” Mick paused for a second, eyes searching. An idea popped into Barry’s head. As softly as he could, so as to not get trashed by the other prisoners, he began humming “Good Morning” from _Signing in the Rain_ under his breath.

Mick’s demeanor instantly changed. “Shit, _that_ Barry. Don’t think I ever got ‘round to tellin’ ya Fiddler’s better.“ He gave Barry a bruising back pat, “How’s Iron Heights treaten’ you, beanpole?” 

Barry didn’t even have time to respond before Mick turned to Len and smacked him upside the head. Which. _What?_ “Bastard, why didn’t you tell me? You got your fuckin’ diuretic memory.”

Len rolled his eyes, but was otherwise unfazed, “Eidetic memory. And I wanted to see how you reacted, have some fun. Prison gets oh so dull.” He leaned in closer to Barry, “and you don’t want others to get too suspicious, or for you to get too noticed. Kids like you don’t know people like us.” He looked pointedly at Barry.

“Well, uh, little late for the whole ‘not getting noticed thing,’” Barry rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.

Len’s eyes darted around. “What do you mean, Scarlet?” 

“I mean, everyone already knows I run with Marco, and most of the big players know better than to mess with either of us. I’ve gotten enough dirt on most of the others, stuff that could damage their relationships with other families or the law, so...” Barry shrugged. “Unless you’re worried about being associated with Marco, we’re good. I don’t know who you’re running with nowadays, if anyone. You both seem the more independent type when it comes to organizations or the families.”

Len’s eyebrows slowly climbed throughout Barry’s ramblings. “And who exactly is this “‘Marco?’”

“Oh, uh, Marco Mardon.”

“...As in, the former heir of the _Mardon_ Family?”

Barry nodded absentmindedly. He wasn’t sure when talking about stuff like this became normal. It just did. “Uh. Yeah, we usually stick together. Some idiot tried to shank him a few days ago; he only got a scar along his side, nothing too deep, but it got infected. He’s in medical right now, otherwise he’d be here.” 

Len looked unconvinced. “Is he threatening or extorting you? Using you?” His eyes scanned across his body, as if… as if looking for injuries.

Barry’s eyes went wide, “No, really, we’re just friends. More like brothers, even.”

“Just friends? With a disgraced mobster?” 

“Really. Friends.”

A wry laugh escaped Len, but the tension released from his shoulders. “Barry, you make friends with the weirdest people.”

“...thanks?” Barry paused, then narrowed his eyes. “You’re one of them, you know.”

“I don’t have friends, Scarlet. I have enemies and acquaintances.”

“Then what’s Mick?”

“Mick doesn’t count. He’s just.... he’s Mick.” Mick grunted in affirmation.

“And I’m Barry. And we’re friends.” He hadn’t gotten to say it before, in the darkened hallway. So he’d say it now, with as much conviction as he could muster, “I don’t have many either, but I’m counting both of you as friends. You haven’t judged me for my past or treated me like shit. And, well, maybe that’s low standards, but I can see it— you’re good people.”

“We quite literally met running from the cops, Scarlet.”

Barry scoffed, “The cops aren’t always good people, either.” Len’s eyes softened at that. “And good people can do bad things. So. No arguing. We’re friends.” 

“What is this, grade school?” Len rolled his eyes, but as the guards called the inmates back into the facility, he let out a sigh. “Fine, Scarlet. Friends.”

Barry turned to Mick, eyebrows raised expectantly. They stood there for a moment, at an impasse, until Mick finally caved with a grumbly huff of, “Friends, kid.” He gave Barry another hard slap on the shoulder.

The guards’ yells grew more urgent, and Mick turned towards his partner in crime, “Let’s beat it, Snart.”

Len nodded and gave Barry a joking salute before turning for the entrance. Barry laughed, unable to remove the grin plastered to his face. Without thinking, he called out, “Be seeing you, Len!”

He didn’t know how or why, but he felt that it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also here’s some even more random thoughts! Feel free to ignore them, part of me just likes putting them out there. But if you do read or respond, thank you :D
> 
> I have my own reasoning/logic behind Zoom’s actions, but I don’t think I’ll be able to find a place to put it into the fic until, much, much later. So if you have any guesses or want to know, feel free to ask/speculate. (I also considered doing a little POV from him or Wells)
> 
> I finally watched Elseworlds for the first time! (I don’t have much time for TV, unfortunately). I’m honestly surprised there aren’t really any Elseworld coldflash fics out there, although I have seen a couple body swap ones. I also may have sorta kinda ended up writing the beginning of a storyline for an Elseworld thing, but I wanted to focus on this so gahhh. I might still post what I have but idk.
> 
> Oh and this was my first time writing fight scenes with several people, or really at all, so if you have any tips, please let me know!! 
> 
> Anndddd have a good night/day!


End file.
